


A Different Kind Of Stag Night

by frecklesandconstellations99



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Drunk Sherlock, John Not Coping, Karaoke, M/M, Morality vs Desire, Probably gonna include the violin, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock is Married to His Work?, Songfic, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Unexpected Confessions, stag night au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2019-11-17 16:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 10,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18101984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frecklesandconstellations99/pseuds/frecklesandconstellations99
Summary: What if Sherlock and John stayed out later on their stag night? What if John dragged Sherlock to a karaoke bar and things don't quite go according to plan?





	1. Milk and Biscuits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs Hudson buys milk, Sherlock examines insect wings and John hesitantly persuades his odd flatmate to join him for his Stag Night.

"I'm getting married next week!" 

Sherlock is busing himself with his microscope, observing a miniature cicada wing. He's thinks it's somehow related to a case, though he isn't sure why yet, so he continues to study its meticulous patterns. He tries to ignore what John has just stated, in order to concentrate better on the task at hand. 

John clears his throat, clearly frustrated. He hates when Sherlock ignores him, which is somehow becoming more frequent than his usual bouts of silence. 

"Did you hear me, or do I have to be a dead body in order to get you to pay attention for once?"

Sherlock scoffs. Whatever John has to say, it's probably not important. 

"Sherlock, I said I'm getting married. Next week. Surely you know what that means?"

Again, John is met with silence. He rolls his eyes, picks up today's paper and flicks through the pages, waiting for an answer that will not come. Once considerable time has passed, he gives in. 

"Stag night, Sherlock. It's when a groom and his male friends go out to celebrate his upcoming wedding." 

The other man groans in disproval from the kitchen, just as Mrs Hudson bustles in. 

"Just checking you've got your milk, dears... The Lord knows how forgetful the pair of you can be sometimes, what with running around solving your silly little crimes.." 

John smiles at her warmly. "We were just talking about my stag night celebrations." 

"Oh!" She exclaims, a delighted beam spreading across her face. "Oh, you'll have a lovely time, I'm sure. Just don't get up to any mischief! I can't have my boys misbehaving!" John struggles not to roll his eyes for the sake of politeness - she winks and taps the side of her nose before exiting more quickly than she had entered. 

"You didn't get any biscuits!" Sherlock yells after her, clearly irritated. John has learnt over time that he can irritated by practically anything.

Leaving his microscope, the detective stands and then journeys to his chair, where he will undoubtedly sit and think for a while. John is surprised, however, when he speaks. 

"And what sort of-" He pauses to scrunch his nose up in disgust, "Celebrations... do these stag nights include?"

John looks at Sherlock for a moment with a puzzled expression, before hastily continuing the conversation. 

"Well, I'm inviting Lestrade and Stamford," Another scoff from Sherlock that John chooses to ignore, "I'm thinking of taking you three around my favourite pubs in London, and there's no way you're getting out of it, Sherlock. What's that face for? I never drag you with me for a drink."

"I can assume, then, that you'll be consuming alcohol?" The brunette questions accusingly, in the sort of condescending manner that reminds John very strongly of Mycroft. "..Yes?" John says pointedly. "Obviously?"

"That's all I need to know then. Thank you John. Let me know on the day what time we're going to leave." Sherlock gets up, and brushes out the room with the grace of an odd sort of swan. John looks bewilderedly after him, the familiar feeling of being totally and utterly dumbfounded returning once more. It only ever resurfaces because of Sherlock, and John is aching for the day that he might finally understand this stubborn enigma of a man. 

For now, though, all the husband-to-be can do is mumble "Nutter," under his breath, before returning to the reassuring common sense of his newspaper. 

//One Week Later//

"Sherlock, you ready? We're supposed to be meeting the others in five minutes, and you know what the bloody traffic's like!" John calls up the stairs, before hurriedly checking his watch. He hates being late to anything because of the overwhelming stress it causes him, and Sherlock, apart from anything else, unfortunately adds to that. "Come on!" 

Polished dress shoes appear on the stairs and descend slowly. There he is; dressed in an outfit more suited to perhaps a gala than a casual night out. _Typical Sherlock, being far more over-the-top than necessary,_ John thinks. But there is something elegant about his deep blue dress shirt, the creases folding in just the right places - the way his clothes are almost feminine with how carefully they've been picked. Compared to John's jumper and jeans that he has hastily thrown on last-minute, Sherlock looks... almost ethereal. 

John doesn't realise he's been staring until Sherlock awkwardly clears his throat. "Ready, then?" 

"Yes, uh," John coughs, "Uh, the erm, Taxi, outside. No, _i_ s outside-" But Sherlock has already waltzed passed him and let himself in through the waiting black doors of the car. 

The former army doctor sighs, gives himself a moment to breathe, and then joins his best friend in the cab.  


It's going to be a long evening.


	2. Emotions Are A Waste Of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The detective reminisces about the way life was before.

Sentiment is one of the many things Sherlock Holmes cannot, and will not stand. What was the point in fawning over pointless events, celebrations, memories, when all that counts is the present? You can't get the past back, so don't waste valuable energy dreaming about it... indeed the same can be said for the future. To him, if it's not now, then it doesn't matter. 

But perhaps, just this once, Sherlock will allow himself to reminice about before. When he had just met John, and things seemed so much more simple. Now, life was so serious, and so adult - he hates it. What about the fun they used to have solving cases? What about when John knew him a little less, and was astonded a little more easily, and Sherlock could fool his friend into thinking he was a heartless detective?

Now John knows him a little better, and forgives him a little less - and Sherlock knows deep down inside, what he supposes he's always known, is that his fear is becoming truer each day. As much as he dislikes to admit it, he is losing control. 

He thinks about all of this in the dark enclosure of the taxi, watching the all-too-familiar scenes of London flash by. His hands rest on his lap, and in them he turns his mobile over repeatedly. He's yearning for a text, or a call - something to get him out of this weird night ahead of him, but the country has decided it currently doesn't need his help. Which is typical, of course. The genius detective sighs a little in despair. 

"I know you're worried about the wedding, Sherlock." 

Panic grips him like a vice, but luckily John cannot see his expression, turned towards the window. A scoff follows, because that's what Sherlock does when he doesn't know what to say, but the other man is prepared for this response.  
"You don't have to say anything. But people get married, people grow up. We can't run around London forever, Christ."

No reply.

"...I guess what I'm trying to say is.." John continues warily. "We'll grow apart. And that's normal with friends. I won't see you as much and I won't always be by your side, but it's okay. That's life, that's just the way it is, but you'll be alright. You don't need me by your side all the time."

 _But I'm Sherlock, and you're John,_ Sherlock wants to say. _It's the two of us against the world, and it always has been. What's the point in changing that?_ But he can't get the words out of his throat, and they sit stuck there instead, like an accidently swallowed piece of gum. 

He stays watching the streets outside, hating the horrible silence that follows. 

Eventually, John breaks it. 

"I need to sort my life out, Sherlock. I love Mary, and becoming her husband is a good place to start."

The corners of his eyes sting, and the detective wonders if there is some sort of problem with the air in the taxi. The lights from outside cause him to sit either in too-bright colours, or enveloping shadows. He has always preferred the latter. 

The car is slowing down outside a period building, with blaring advertisements screaming pointless information from every window. Cries from groups of men inside indicate that their favourite team has just missed a goal, and the brunette rolls his eyes in bitter disgust. 

"First stop, The Two Horseshoes," John proclaims proudly.

Sherlock sinks into the collar of his coat.


	3. 443.7 Milliters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is determined to have a good night out, and Sherlock rapidly realises he would've been much better off shooting the walls of 221B.

Beers. Tv's. Lads watching the footy. John is struck with an odd sense of nostalgia, remembering his earlier days of going out with his mates on a Saturday night. Watching the world cup during the humidity of summer, cool beers and freedom with friends to wash it down. Trying to pick up girls, only to be embarrassingly rejected before drunkenly stumbling home and hanging onto arms for dear life. It was certainly different before he decided to fight for wars.

John resolves to relive his youth tonight, enjoy life a little. He is, after all, getting married soon! To his beautiful girlfriend, his loyal partner. He smiles.

Then he gulps. 

A tap on his shoulder causes him to turn around. 

"I was wondering when you'd show up." Di Lestrade grins, giving John's shoulder a friendly slap. "Feels like me and Mike have been waiting for ages!" He gestures to Stamford, who is sitting at a table near the back of the pub, scrolling through something on his phone. Mike looks up, waves briefly, then returns to his screen. 

John smiles. "Yeah, well if it wasn't for this..." He mouths _lunatic,_ "...genius, maybe we might've arrived on time."

"No problem. Hey, shall we get _genius_ over here to order the beers?" 

John laughs in delight. "You know what, I'd fucking love to see that. Sherlock! Sherlock?"

He looks around for his friend... Sherlock is standing by the front doors still, an expression of reluctance on his face. Lestrade rolls his eyes. 

"I'll force him, John. Go talk to Stamford, we won't be long." 

John nods at him, grateful for the Di's intervention. Although, John has to admit there is something distinctly sweet about Sherlock's absolute ignorance to normal life - his absolute unusualness shielded him from nights out with mates, apparently. He laughs to himself a little - if John told himself two years ago that he'd succeeded in dragging a very stubborn detective to a pub, he wouldn't've believed it for a second. 

John's gaining more control over his relationship with Sherlock, and it makes him feel confident. After all, why would Mary want a sidekick, when she could have the hero? 

He walks over to the table where Mike sits, joins him, and begins a much-needed catch up. 

\-------

Lestrade joins them a few minutes later, hysterical about Sherlock. "He was trying to order a pint, and he had no idea what it was! You should've seen the bartender's face, my God-"

Sherlock saunters over, carrying three oddly shaped glasses filled with beer.

Lestrade makes a face. "What the fuck-"

"443.7 millilitres. Not enough to do things you'll regret but enough to sustain a pleasant, buzzy feeling." 

The Di lowers his head into his hands, while John takes his cylinder slowly. "Sherlock, I-"

"You'll thank me." The detective replies, before showing his phone displaying various health articles. Greg takes one look at the cylinder, shakes his head and says, "Fuck that," before heading back to the bar and ordering a very large pint, thank you very much.

John laughs nervously, his previous confidence deterring slightly. 

"To Mary!" He expresses, raising his cylinder. Mike toasts him with Lestrade's abandoned one, and Sherlock replicates after a second. 

He waits until he's quite sure John's attention is no longer on him, before he mutters "To bloody Mary." and then gulps down as much alcohol as he can manage.

Maybe 443.7 millilitres wasn't quite going to be enough.


	4. Shitfaced

"You know, I have no effing clue why pubs have names like these. I mean, Royal Oak? Really?"

Lestrade, Mike and John are all sat at stools, their drinks placed on the bar counter in front of them. There's music, and this pub is a little more lively than the last, and there are some good looking girls around. Lestrade likes this place a lot.

"Hm?" He doesn't hear John's remark, perhaps as is focus is on one particular young woman who looks around his age, chatting and giggling with her friends. Mike gives John a look, and John laughs, because Lestrade picking up women never goes well, but it is always so entertaining to watch. They love how he claims to be Mr. Smooth around the ladies, when in reality the most he'll get is "You look a little like my uncle!". It's always pretty funny. 

They've forgotten about the brooding detective in the corner, sitting with his mobile, his cylinder and his boredom. The two other glasses he brought for John and Mike stand abandoned, while the two are up at the front ordering things they want to drink. Sherlock feels rather miserable at the lack of fun he seems to be having. 

How on earth could John want mundanity like this when Sherlock had given him the free ticket to real life? Adrenaline highs, near death experiences, solving crimes and chasing the most ingenious criminals in the country - what was there not to love? The detective can't comprehend it. Settling down with a wife, having children; was that not boring? Why did John want to fit in when there was so much more to experience in standing out? 

His mind races. He's trying solve the case with the cicada wing, entering his mind palace in a blind hope to discover answers. But it's becoming trickier these days, when life threatens to throw conflict in his direction. Will he be as good of a detective without John? Probably, but he does not know. Was John going to fade out of his life, only to return for unbearable 'catch-ups', as he so called them? 

Sherlock sincerely hopes not. 

The dreadful music drones on, and Sherlock decides to stop for a toilet break. It's quieter, away from the sound. 

\---------

Mike notices that Sherlock has left for the loo, and points this out. Lestrade stops paying attention to the woman, and has an idea.

"A shot of vodka, please," He asks the bartender. "And make it strong."

"Woah, Greg.. you know we'll be going to other pubs too, right? I wouldn't recommend getting shots this early in the evening." John remarks.

Lestrade grins. "It's not for me, John. It's for our lovely detective."

It takes a moment for John to realise what Lestrade is saying. "...Are you sure? I don't think getting Sherlock hammered is the best of ideas, mate." he questions.

"And don't think you should put up with any of his usual bullshit on your stag night." Lestrade says, right as the bartender finishes pouring the clear liquid. He pushes the glass over to John. "Trust me, this'll be a laugh." 

John isn't sure, but then he remembers all the times Sherlock screwed him over, irritated him, drove him insane... the biggest, obviously, being that he left him alone for two years without letting him know he wasn't actually dead.. 

It still makes John's blood boil. 

"Why not?" The former army doctor resolves. "To be honest, I want to see him shitfaced too."

And he carries the glass over and tips it into the cylinder without a second thought.


	5. Close Attention

It's almost 9:47pm in London, at this time John has found himself and his group of friends in a new pub - one with perhaps a better name than the last. The Red Lion does have a more sophisticated look to it, after all...there's more life here, and more colour - the hues dance in John's vision, and the air is warm. 

It's one of John's favourite places in the city. 

"Do you think anyone here knows who I am?" Sherlock questions, while Mike quickly adds another shot to his drink while he's not looking. "I mean, I have an international reputation."

"You're not very forgettable, that's for damn sure." Lestrade remarks, signalling the bartender for another beer. 

"You could say that," John adds a little wearily, watching his best friend consume more alcohol than he realises. Sherlock, for once, has absolutely no clue what's going on, and there's something about that that John finds peculiarly satisfying. 

"I like your hair!" A stranger points out, laughing when John realises they're talking to him. He turns around, only to face a brunette grinning back at him. "Can I buy you a drink?" He asks.

The army doctor freezes. Sitting across from him at the bar is a man with a light dusting of freckles over both cheeks and nose, and a slight rosy complexion from just getting in from the cold. He wears a caramel coat that looks nice enough to be in several magazines and a beanie he's forgotten to remove. This man is probably a little younger than John, but he has creases around the corners of both eyes where countless smiles have caused the features to lift.

He's not bad looking at all, really.

John is taken aback that he's caught someone's attention, and a man's at that. He sits in bewilderment at not knowing entirely what to say.

The stranger smiles gently. 

"John, I've been busy calculating and I've come to the conclusion that if I get it just right, I might _possibly_ be able to balance this glass on my head." 

The detective's voice is coming from somewhere behind him, and John turns to glance around the room for any sign of his best friend. It doesn't take him long, due to the fact that Sherlock is holding his glass cylinder high in the air, presumably taking measurements or absorbing unnecessary information to store in his mind palace. 

"Sorry, I need to sort out.. I've got to-" 

"Don't worry about it. Here, feel free, anytime." The stranger slides a piece of paper across the bar in John's direction, before getting up and disappearing into the crowds of other people. John is too distracted by Sherlock's questionable behaviour to remember that he's engaged, and to tell the stranger that thank you, he's flattered, but he isn't gay.

However, there are more pressing matters at hand...

"Sherlock, what In God's name do you think you're doing?" John asks, feigning off his confusion and struggling to hold back some very sudden, very overpowering fits of laughter. He wonders if this is Lestrade's doing, because by the way the consulting detective stumbles over his words and struggles a little to stand upright, John is pretty certain that he's tipsy. 

"Well, its's quite simple really, you see, the diameter of the base is around- hey, what's so funny?"

John finds himself doubling over, unable to prevent the creases of laughter controlling his body. He holds up one index finger, as if to say "Hold on a sec!" while he fights to combat his fit.

"Do you have," John breathes, "Any idea," Helpless giggles escape his throat, but he pushes on, "How ridiculous you sound?"

"No..?" Sherlock's response only causes John to laugh harder. 

"You're mad." He says quietly as his laughter dies, looking down at the floor. 

Sherlock is indignant, and rolls his eyes. " _No,_ I'm a high-functioning-"

"Sociopath." John grins, then looks up. His eyes are cast, causing their appearance to look glassy in the dim lights. Sherlock knows it's just the colours, and perhaps the alcohol, but he's never known eyes to shine quite like John's are, right now.

They stand, looking at each other. John's wearing a bemused smile, and the detective thinks he looks entirely cheesy. The former army doctor observes his best friend, with his alarming head of curls and his frankly alien bone structure and remembers, just for a second, how lucky he is to have this utter buffoon in his life. 

Then the moment passes, and Sherlock coughs. 

"Loo." He says, before sweeping off somewhere and disappearing from sight. John is left in the dust of his best friend's tracks. 

"Not to pat myself on the back, but I knew I'd done something right that day." Mike's voice is behind him, and John turns to face his old friend. 

"...What do you mean?"

"When you met." Mike replies. "I think...I think that was all the confirmation I needed."

"Mike, you're not making sense, what confirmation-"

But he is interrupted by a shriek somewhere near the front of the bar, from a voice that sounds distinctly feminine. "You _dickhead!_ " It cries, before the woman in question storms out of the building in undeniable aggravation. Everyone turns, only to find Lestrade in her wake, looking distinctly sheepish. John and Mike head towards him.

"Don't ask." The DI states darkly, his eyes hooded and expression set like steel. His two friends throw their hands up as a gesture to say they weren't going to, and then Lestrade requests to go to a different pub, as soon as humanly possible, if that's quite alright. They set about looking for Sherlock, who is talking to a coat hanger. They finally leave, the people of the pub eyeing the four, muttering amongst themselves how strange they all look.


	6. Opposites

"Greg, do you think it would be best if-"

"I told you. _Don't. Ask._ Got that?"

The group of unlikely men are walking down a street in London, somewhere, and there aren't many people around. John nods, and resolves to question Lestrade no further. 

Mike clears his throat a little uncomfortably. "Any clue where to next?" He asks John, who is steadily realising he's not quite as good of a host as he thought he was going to be. Relieved for the change of subject, he brings out a list of his favourite spots around the city, before deciding on a quiet place not too far from here. 

"They sometimes have live music too, but it's all very local - what do you all think?" Mike and Lestrade nod, the DI perking up a bit at the prospect of a little peace. Sherlock is dragging behind them a little, and they turn towards him.

For whatever reason, the detective has decided that inspecting nearby streetlamps is his new favourite hobby, and is currently tracing the scratches of one by the road. The same thought crosses each of the other men's minds, and that is whatever Sherlock's doing, albeit strange, is probably just him being _him._

"Holmes, can you solve a crime on another occasion? You see, John is about to get married, and that may not be a big deal to you, but it is to him. So for _once_ in your life can you just be goddamned reasonable?" Lestrade barks, pent-up frustration causing his sudden outburst. The other detective looks up from his observations, nods curtly, and then rejoins the three on their journey. 

For a while, things are quiet, and they listen to the sounds of cars, of sirens and of life in the city on this brisk Saturday night. While the hues in the sky were before a welcoming and familar orange, the shades have flipped altogether, this time to velvet blues scattered with faint stars. Complimentary colours.

Then the silence is broken. 

"Why are you seeing Mary again?" Sherlock wonders aloud, blind to the suspicious looks that pass between Lestrade and Mike. "Hold on, why are you even getting _married?_ "

Unspoken words catch in John's throat, and are instead replaced with a scratchy laugh that sounds nothing even remotley close to genuine. He can't look his friend in the eye, and he doesn't want to for fear of what he'll see there. The question is so personal, and so rude, that John fights not to disregard all politness and channel his military self, Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fuisilers, to tell him what's what. 

Instead, he shrugs. "I love her. You know that." The uncertainty that wavers in his voice is undeniable, and it scares him. Because no matter how many times he tells Sherlock he's in love with Mary, the detective never seems to grasp it. 

_Or maybe he just refuses to-_

"Hey, I think this is it. Fox and Hounds, was it?"

They are here, and John doesn't think he's ever been more grateful for the invention of a pint.


	7. The Abscence Of Information Is Frightening

_Mary._

Sherlock wonders if he fears her. There was Moriarty, but that criminal mastermind didn't eject fright into the detective, no.. he was more like an uneasy jolt of electricity. Moriarty was predictable, if not a little odd, and while certainly less transparent than most, Sherlock found he was still somewhat able to solve. 

But _Mary_...

She was the first person he'd never even come close to hacking.

On the surface, he supposes he should know practically everything about her, and yet there's something she won't say. What that is, Sherlock doesn't know, and it fascinates and perplexes him more than words can describe. Perhaps John feels it too, and that is one of the reasons he wants to marry her - after all, the former army doctor has always been drawn to things he can't make sense of. 

But _dread_... surely that wasn't a feeling one was attracted to?

Sherlock understands anything and everything. He can tell you the placement of a nucleus on a plant blindfolded, he can recite every street in London by heart. He was a prodigy in school, labelled again and again a genius until it drove him sick in the head. His mind palace is endless, stretching on forever with reams upon reams of information stored and ready for him to access whenever he wants. There's not a soul on earth who'll label him as stupid. 

But, the one thing he doesn’t understand is Mary. 

He can't figure her out. 

And that, above all else, terrifies him.


	8. Ideas Are More Than Dangerous

Beers. Drink. Loo. Repeat.

The evening is dull, and John refuses to admit it. The most eventful thing that happened was Lestrade's outburst, and even that wasn't very interesting. Sherlock, despite being a little tipsy, isn't really doing anything entertaining, and John thinks that maybe the lot of them should just pack it in for the night and head home. He can only hope that Mary's Hen Do is more eventful than this, and plans to ask her about it later, when this is finally over.

Just when he's about to suggest everyone calls themselves a cab, Mike says something out of the blue. 

"I wonder if any of us are any good at singing, eh?"

And then perhaps the most ridiculous idea ever comes to John, an idea that is so absurd he wonders if he's gonna have the mick taken out of him by practically everyone in the pub. 

He looks Mike directly in the eyes.

"We could find out, you know."

Realisation, sudden and inevitable, crashes over his face like waves on a ferocious beach.

"...What are you saying, John?"

"I'm not saying, I'm suggesting. What do you think?"

Mike raises his eyebrows, looks at his friend for a beat and wonders privatley if all the years he's spent with Sherlock have driven him a little mad. It's certainly true that the night has been boring as shit and he's dying to leave, but this is a little ridiculous. 

"A _karaoke bar?_ Are you sure?"

 _Is_ he sure? John can see one of two things happpening. The first, that they go home and try to forget this dreadful evening, having experinced nothing particularly eventful and all that's left to remember is the averagness of the evening - or, (and this is where his mind spirals), they do something mad, something they're guaranteed to never forget. It's risky, but for once in his life John refuses to care. Screw everything, they'll do it.

"Yeah, I'm sure. You've got to admit, Sherlock will look pretty funny." Mike laughs in agreement. 

Plus, he's thinks to himself, he always thought he was a decent singer.


	9. Expected Revaluation

"No, no, nope, nopety nada. Not happening."

Sherlock is rambling, Lestrade's grip on his arm with perhaps more strength than necessary. He'd done so much for John, but hauling a drunk detective down the street was something he was certain wasn't part of the checklist. However, he didn't mind too much. It was rather amusing.

"Come on, you're going to love it." the Di states confidently, the spark of excitement too bright to resist. He knew John's suggestion was ludicrous - but they were restless, and slightly desperate, so he jumped on it almost immediately.

"Singing," the detective starts, then retches a little before straightening, amended, "is synonymous with _sentiment_." He spits the words out like a child would with vile medicine.  

John has to laugh at that. He reminds himself to request a song of particular emotion and everything he knows Sherlock despises. 

Sherlock nearly trips, again, on the kerb. John turns back, and his stomach sinks a little. It's probably the beer.

"Greg." John says, a little guiltily. "I'll take him." The other man passes Sherlock over, then uses his new-found freedom to chat with Mike. John switches with the detective, so that he is no longer beside the road. 

"I don't know any songs, John." Sherlock whispers, his breath tickling John's neck. "Only violin.. stuff." John turns to face him, his best friend, and is taken aback by his expression. His mouth is smiling gently, but his eyes are pained. John is at a loss.

"You'll be alright, mate." He says, the word feeling too casual. He can't afford to deal with a sad drunk tonight, especially when it's Sherlock. Christ only knows what he'd do.

"I'm not sure." The man replies, finding balance, but keeping hold of John just in case. "I'm not sure I have been, for a while." 

The detective registers what he's said, and a wave of confusion flushes his features. 

John's heart hammers.

                          * * * * * 

"So we can request, right? Like anything we want?"

The worker behind the minibar shrugs. "Alan's not in tonight. Play whatever."

Lestrade draws back, gleaming. "We can play any song we want, fellas!" His grin is infectious, and the other men reciprocate. Except Sherlock, obviously.

"So who's going first?" Lestrade asks, while Mike begins searching for a coin to flip or a dice to throw. He rummages around, and produces a five-pence piece.

"Okay." He says. "Greg and I are heads, you two are tails. Then we can divide from there." He flips the coin, then catching it on his hand. 

The results are heads. Sherlock sighs with relief, something the three remaining did not expect. Regardless-

"Tails." Mike says, after the second flip. "You're up, Lestrade." 

The man in question is ecstatic, rubbing his hands together like some comical cartoon villain. "I was in a band, back in the day-" 

John pushes him up to the front, much to the amusement of the other karaoke goers. "Yeah yeah, we don't give one." 

Lestrade stands straight, confidence oozing from every pore. He, much to the surprise of his mates, requests Queen. 

"Problem?" Lestrade offers, the faces of his friends slightly agape. Mike slowly shakes his head. "No, I just imagined you more... metal." 

"Ha!" The Di barks, picking up the microphone from the floor, left abandoned by previous strangers. "Freddy's calling to me, darling." 

What follows is a flamboyant, chaotic and highly entertaining cover of _Another One Bites The Dust_ , complete with strutting and unnecessary microphone thrusting. John would've filmed it, if he knew how to get his damn mobile camera to work. 

Unexpectedly, the other members in the bar cheer him once he's done. He blows kisses, much like Freddy would've, and then rejoins his friends.

"How was that?" He's shaking, he's already regretting it. But Mike and John reassure him that the iconic singer would've been proud, and that is enough to get Greg back to himself again.

"Graham, are you," his head reels a bit. "a homosexual?" 

The detective's sudden question, its formality, his mistaking of Greg's name - infused with intrigue, confusion and perhaps even a hint of admiration, sets the three men off laughing until they are struggling for breath.

"Me!" Greg cries out, actually wiping a tear. "Bloody hell, he's funny." 

"Well, considering-" 

"Yeah genius, it's called _acting_. Have you heard of it?" Perhaps it's the drink, or the high from his performance, but there is an undercurrent of something, something the Di doesn't register. 

Sherlock wonders if Graham has figured it out, or if he will. He doesn't tell him.

Despite his foggy thoughts, and his swirling feelings, he is certain of one thing: he is at least halfway correct. 

Duh.


	10. Implied Deduction

Lestrade is by the bar, gulping down a pint. His performance has earned him many compliments from other members in the club, along with a few insults. He takes it all graciously, while trying to remember how many drinks he's had now. Four? Five? Either way, it takes a lot to get him drunk, and he's certain that what he feels right now is tipsy. Mike and John are in the same state.

They can't say the same for Sherlock.

The man is already odd, but the three know him well, and he's had more to drink. He has been drunk before, a very very long time ago, and he did it because he had to. He's been sober for 20-something years.

He forgets who he turns into.

"Why isn't Mike your best mum? Man. I meant man. He is the best of us man." 

They are at a table near the back of the bar, taking a small break. The Di should return to them soon, with cold beers. The place is filling up a little.

Mike chuckles, wonders briefly how he got here. He is the only one who's seen Sherlock drunk, back in their Uni days, and considering how much Sherlock _hasn't_ changed, the detective seems more controlled.

 _Then again, knowing drunk Sherlock, he has reason to be_ , Mike muses.

"I mean, we've both known him longer than we've known each other..." Sherlock claims, looking between the two as they try not to laugh. "I jusht think that, that, well - he's your _much_ more sensible option, John." 

He's stumbling over his words, and he knows it. This is precisely what wasn't meant to happen. 

"Why would you pick me? I keep heads in the fruboard." 

He'd measured it out with Molly. This wasn't meant to happen. 

"Fridge. Cupboard." 

The pair of men in front of him splutter.

He swears under his breath. "Fuck." 

"Oh Sherlock, when will you use your brain?" 

The question throws him off. He detests it, for the sole reason that it is exactly something his insufferable brother would say.

"I use my brain more than anyone in this club." He tries to spit in reply, but the words come out slower than he intended.

John shakes his head, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"When will you realise that you are important to me.." 

Mike departs for the loo. 

"..More than Mike?" John says in hushed tones. "Though, he is a decent bloke." 

"I have no reason to be important to you. _Mary_ is important to you. That is why you're marrying her, and not me."

Sherlock's eyes widen.

"Wait, did you hear what I just said?" 

John nods slowly, curiosity rapidly overtaking any other emotion.

"Sherlock, what do you mean-"

"-A'ight fellas, a cold beer for you, and for you, and for Mike, when he gets back from wherever he's fucked off to." Lestrade places each glass steadily next to the pair at the table, only slightly spilling them. John wants to rip all of his hair out.

"Thank you, George." The brunette gratefully pulls the glass towards him, and takes a big sip. It is then that he realises he has left the glass cylinders somewhere, and he finds himself only mildly worried about it. 

His concerns lie elsewhere.

The Di chats with John, suggests songs for him to sing on his turn, and the doctor sits, his attention only half present. His mind is repeating what Sherlock said, over and over, trying to figure out whatever the hell it meant.

_"That is why you're marrying her, and not me."_

The detective bangs the pint back down on the table, interrupting his thoughts. The glass is empty. He has somehow drunk all of it already. 

Lestrade puts his hand on his shoulder. "Careful mate, I think maybe you've had enough." 

Sherlock reflects on the evening as of late. If he has calculated correctly, the three cylinders he has drunk, and the pint, minus the loo trip, means that he _should_ be nothing more than a little tipsy. 

John thinks this over too. Sherlock doesn't know about the two shots they snuck into his drinks. He is definitely drunk.

"I've barely had any!" The detective protests. This outburst surprises Lestrade more than Sherlock has the decency to conceal it.

"I thought, with the whole fucking cylinders thing, that that was what you wanted." 

Mike laughs behind them, his secrets to himself. 

"I got you a beer, mate." 

"Cheers." He sits down. "Ahh, drunk Holmes. It's been a while." His eyes dance with amusement, and Sherlock grows cold.

"I am _not_ drunk-"

"But you want to be." The Di points out, taking a sip of his drink. 

"I'll have you know," The brunette growls, anger pooling in his stomach. "That I have an _international_ reparation. Reputation." 

"Yeah, for wanking off the government." Mike snorts.

John tries to hide his laughter. The mental image of Sherlock involved in anything sexual just makes him want to collapse on the floor in helpless heaps.

"I think we should get this tosser up right now," Lestrade suggests. "Would be a laugh, I reckon." 

Though the offer is tempting, John cannot stand anything short of fair. "Flip a coin. Heads is Mike, Tails is me and Sherlock." 

"And do I get a say in this?" The detective grumbles. John rubs his shoulder reassuringly.

"Relax." 

The flash of silver in the air is fleeting. Lestrade slaps in onto the back of his hand, then reveals the result.

Heads.

"Aw, fuck me." Mike says quietly. Lestrade's maniacal hand rubbing has returned, free to taunt as he has had his go. "You picked a song?" 

Mike rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I think so." 

"Then let's go, big man! Show us what you got." 

"How do you get the thingy to work?" 

"Oh, I'll show you, come on." The two saunter away, no doubt to push buttons at random until they either succeed, or break it. There is no in-between.

"Why am I heerreeee?" Sherlock slurs, his face buried in his crossed arms on the table. 

Without meaning to, John reaches out for his shoulder again, props him upright, then takes away his hand. The detective straightens, then runs a hand through his hair, slow and distracted. 

John's mouth goes dry.

"You know why you're here."

Sherlock turns to face him. Their eyes lock.

"I don't think I do." Are his pupils dilated because of the alcohol?

"You're being my friend." John reasons, remembering Mary.

"What if I don't want that?" 

John's heart plummets. Does Sherlock really not want to be his friend?

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. You'll always be my friend, as will I to you." 

Sherlock runs a hand through his hair again. He always loved a successful experiment.

"Are you sure?" 

John's heart beats a little faster. 

"Sherlock, what in God's name are you on about?" 

"Deduce it." Sherlock smirks, his eyes alight.

"Deduce _me._ "

It's hard for John not to think about what that word rhymes with, when Sherlock's gaze seems to turn every inch of his skin to goosebumps.

"Sorry, what-" 

"Ladies and Gents, Lads and Ladettes, boys and girls. May I present to you, Mike, with The Clash!" 

And so it begins.


	11. Smirks And Spirits

*To add to this chapter, play the song _Should I Stay Or Should I go?_ By The Clash while reading it :)*

1982 returns to the club, and Mike stands at the front, some fear in his expression. Lestrade is right in front of the small stage, cheering him on. John, and then Sherlock, pick a table more close to watch. They sit together, if a little apart.

Mike inhales, starting the song. His voice isn't bad, and his fear starts to shrink. 

" _So you got to let me know  
Should I stay or should I go?_" 

Punk vibrates through the speakers. Heads nod to the beat, shoes tap the floor. Lestrade provides whoops and rockstar screams. It's getting better.

_"It's always tease, tease, tease  
You're happy when I'm on my knees."_

Sherlock glances at the man sat beside him.

_"One day it's fine and next it's black,  
So if you want me off your back.."_

Shimmering lights dance over John's side profile.

_"Well, come on and let me know..."_

John turns, and almost swears. The brunette stares back at him, gaze unwavering, unapologetic. It's burning. Blush creeps up his neck.

_"Should I stay or should I go?"_

John breaks it, pivots. Mike is gaining confidence by the second, the microphone detached from its stand. John lifts his hands, and starts to clap along with the growing crowd.  


_Should I stay or should I go now?_  
_If I go, there will be trouble_  
_And if I stay it will be double_  
_So come on and let me know.._

__

The music kicks in, and Mike accidentally adds another _Should I stay or should I go?_ , much to the delight of the crowd. He laughs sheepishly, Lestrade nods encouragingly, and so he carries on. 

_"This indecision's bugging me."_

Sherlock turns his head. This time, it's John who's already looking.

_"If you don't want me, set me free."_

Sherlock forgets that they are only song lyrics. 

John shifts.

_"Exactly whom I'm supposed to be.."_

Sherlock shakes his hair, to clear his eyes. 

_"Don't you know which clothes even fit me?"_

He looks up through his curls, and John forgets how to breathe. 

_"Come on and let me know.."_

"Sherlock." John chokes out.

_"Should I cool it or should I blow?"_

A cry erupts from Lestrade, just like in the song. 

_"Split."_

John stands immediately, almost knocking over the drinks. He hurries to the toilets, and Sherlock to the bar. 

* * * * * 

"Shit, shit, shit shit, SHIT." John yells once inside the clinical white light of the club's bathroom. It's reminiscent of daylight, and brings him to his senses. 

He slams down on the tap, it's one of the pushy ones, and cups water in his shaking hands. He throws it over his face, gathers more water, throws it. He repeats this until the water on the floor starts to seep under the doors of the cubicles behind him. 

"What the fuck," His arms are grasping each side of the basin, he attempts to steady his breathing, "was _that?_ "

Lifting his head, he faces the mirror. He looks so unlike himself that he steps back a little, as if putting more distance between him and his reflection could make the man in the glass look more like someone he recognises. 

He can hear Mike through the walls, continuing with the song and apparently clueless to what has happened. The crowd holler along, and the beat is deafening.

The music picks up to its faster pace, only adding to John's stress. The repetition of the words only seem to taunt him. 

He begs for it to end. 

_"If I go there will be trouble,_  
_And if I stay it will be double_.  
_So you gotta let me know.._.  
_Should I stay or should I go?_ " 

John hates how the lyrics seem impossibly tuned to his thoughts. He considers the man staring back at him, his identical twin. There is something about him that screams trouble, and recklessness, and everything he considers himself _not_ to be. John doesn't trust him, for what he's capable of, and for the first time tonight he wonders if adding fuel to the fire might not be such a good idea. 

But for goodness's sake, he's being ridiculous, it's his Stag Night, he's entitled to as many goddamn beers as he pleases - why should he let Sherlock that away from him?

Not when he's taken so much already?

His mind is made up. Fuck Sherlock, he's getting another pint - and if that means facing him at the bar, so be it.

* * * * * 

Sherlock observes John as he leaves, a smirk playing on his lips. He's got him now. Funny, John ever thinking he'd gain the upper hand. 

Control is Sherlock's specialty, and somehow, even when he's losing it, it's strong, stronger than any drink in the world.

"Give me a shot. I don't care what of, surprise me." He smiles at the young bartender, who rolls his eyes and then turns to scan the shelves. 

"I've seen shit go down here through the years," The bartender goes on to say, "It's an eventful place. But my god, if you think you can use it as your home," He turns around, unscrews a cap of white gin, "fucking get a room." 

He pours it with the fluidity and effortlessness of a waterfall. 

Sherlock laughs. The sound makes the hairs on the back of the other man's neck stand. 

"You're funny, you are." He drawls, holding the mini glass to his eyes and inspecting it from all angles. "And cheeky. 1.5 millilitres? Either you're extremely generous, or you want me shitfaced." 

"I-"

"No, I like your style." The detective's smirk has returned. "Cheers to that." 

He downs the glass, revelling the fire that the burns in his throat. 

The bartender is mesmerised, and Sherlock maintains their eye contact as he pours himself another. He doesn't blink, doesn't spill a drop.

"Beer, please." Ah, the army doctor has returned! What fun.

"I think we need to have a word." John says, a little wearily. 

Sherlock grins.


	12. You Drive Us Insane

"You see," John says, fighting for composure, "This evening is not about you. It is about me, and how you should be celebrating Mary and I's wedding-to-come."

He sounds boring, Sherlock muses. Not that he doesn't anyway, but particularly more so tonight. When John turns to search for Mike and Lestrade, the detective tips 1.5ml of white gin into the beer, then refills his glass before John can suspect. 

"Try to be my best friend, Sherlock. It's the least you could do." He sips his beer, a pained expression on his face. 

Any smooth talk Sherlock had coming is forgotten in an instant. He ironed his nicest clothes, polished his best shoes, _agreed to slope around London pubs like the men he detests,_ and for what? 'The _least_ he could do'?

"Please. You just want me here so you can try to unearth some side to me, which, for your information, does not exist."

"How is that my problem?" John retaliates, anger rising in his chest. "It's not my fault you think you're some sort of robot." 

The bartender gulps, then slowly pulls the bottle of gin away.

"I'm probably cleverer than a robot." 

"You'd wank with your brain if that were possible!" 

"I'd have good reason!"

At this, John's jaw drops.

"You just care about yourself!"

"Well you never listen to me!" 

John throws his hands in the air, his pint forgotten. 

"You make things so _difficult_ , Sherlock! For once in your life, why can't you just be happy for me?"

The detective is silenced. John turns back to his drink, gulping down the words he can't say. 

"Am I not going to get any approval for what I did up there?" Mike and Lestrade appear at John's side. Neither say a word.

"Well, I think I did quite well." He huffs, a little hurt. John sips his beer, faintly registering its more bitter taste.

"You did good, mate. Have a beer." John says, rubbing his temples. He feels the alcohol in his system, thrumming through his veins. 

Sherlock hears his heart hammer, the sound magnified. Was he being a bad friend? He didn't have any other friends. John was all he really cared about.

Then _why_ can't he be happy for him? 

He knows this - he is afraid of losing John to mundanity, that's all. But the squirming, repulsed feeling in his stomach aren't the typical symptoms of fear. 

"What's he so quiet about, eh?"

"Just ignore him." John mutters, shaking his head. "Maybe we should go home." 

He's sifting through the human emotions, trying to find a match. It's like he's put himself under the microscope, but the picture is more blurry and his conscience is somewhere else.

"You wish! I'm not leaving until he's sung something." Lestrade gestures at the other detective, just when Sherlock is hit by a tidal wave of information.

"Oh my god!" He stands, shaking. The 1.5ml glass is tipped and the liquid sinks into his shirt. The world is spinning, and he's losing his footing.

"I'll- I'll, I will be right," He stops, avoiding John's furious gaze. "-back." He stumbles, turns, and runs to the doors. He's clawing at the handle (when did doors become so difficult to open?), and when he finally gets out the rush of cold air is astoundingly fresh. He inhales heaps and heaps, clutching the door behind him. 

He lets it swing shut, and sinks to the pavement. A group of young women approaching the club giggle, and head inside. 

He's leaning against the wall, trying to focus on one single object to stop everything blurring. His breath is ragged, and uneven, his hands clawed into his scalp. 

Despite what many believe, Sherlock is a real person, and despite what many fail to see, he feels. Throughout his life he has experienced bouts of euphoria, craving, desperation. He has felt sadness deeper than seas, emptiness as gaping and hollow as an oceanic cave. He's trained himself to repress all of it, a volcano too old to erupt.

But he doesn't expect lava when it hadn't burned him in so long. The reassurance of safety is slipping away.

Sherlock has felt every emotion under the spectrum. He has made each of them manageable, tolerable, compact enough to file away somewhere in his mind palace. He knows their cures, and he is able to repair himself should something resurface.

But the one he finally thought he'd grasped, the one he was certain could not return, is back with a vengeance. And he despises it most, for it has no cure, no miracle to make it disappear.

The detective gets to his feet again, his limbs wobbling uncontrollably. He knows what it is.

Jealousy.

* * * * * 

John, Lestrade and Mike are talking about what to do over pints of beer when the brunette re-enters. His hair is unruly, sticking up at all angles, his eyes red from rubbing. His face masks, though not all too successfully, a man who has realised how selfish he truly is. 

He perches clumsily on a bar stool. "Vodka." He barley chokes out. "Now." 

The poor bartender nods, and sets up a 1.25ml glass immediately. 

John is fuming. "Don't you think that, perhaps, you've had enough? Maybe, since I am paying for this crap, the right thing to do-" 

"Don't tell me what's right and what's wrong." The detective interrupts. He downs the glass. 

John reels. Mike and Lestrade share a glance, wondering if they should leave the two. They do, and swiftly. 

"Ughhhhh." the brunette groans, his head on the counter. He can't decide what he's feeling.

John swallows all of his rage, frustration and guilt. _For Sherlock, for our friendship, for everything we've done for each other._ He takes a deep breath.

"You can go home, if you want to. Not my home, obviously, you don't live there. 221P. B." 

_Ah shit,_ he thinks. _I'm drunk._

"Sherlock, did you fucking-" He stops, then, to the shock of both of them, laughs heartily, bewilderedly. "Nevermind, it was probably 'strade. Lestrade." 

Sherlock looks up. "Did I what?" 

"Did you. Put beer. In my gin?" He realises his mistake, and laughs some more. 

Sherlock feels his heart warm a little, butterflies as fragile as tissue paper in his ribcage. Hearing John laugh always did have that effect.

"Might've." 

"Your mood swings are worse than mine," The bartender tuts. "Drama queens, the pair of you!" 

Sherlock flips him off. "Back atcha." The bartender grins.

"Seriously." John smiles gently. "You can go home. If you want." 

"I don't-" Sherlock sighs in exasperation, scratching a hand through his hair. "I don't want to-" 

Something in the air shifts. The doctor hates how lost Sherlock looks, how confused. He doesn't know why his friend rushed out of the bar, but he wants to, and desperately. 

His hand reaches out, brings the arm Sherlock uses to scratch his scalp down. His own hand then travells back to the mess, and he tries as best as he can to smooth down the curls, to mend the damage. He doesn't quite know what he's doing, but it feels good, so he doesn't stop.

He brushes the chestnut coils out of his eyes, intertwines his fingers with the loops. His hair is like satin.

John hears the bar a thousand miles from here. Sherlock has his undivided attention. 

"Tell me," John utters. "You don't want to what?" His hands are trembling, his heart is staccato.

The intent in his gaze is undeniable, yet the words are breaking on his tongue.

"I don't want to, to - to loose you." Sherlock whispers. He's muddled the words, he meant to say _leave,_ and he's revealed too much.

John wants to tell him that he's being silly, they'll always be in touch, but he'd be lying. Somehow, he can't lie to him anymore. He knows what Sherlock really means. And John, realising everything, _everything,_ he's got to loose, makes up his mind.

The detective waits for an answer.

The hand entwined in his hair moves down, cups his jaw. Sherlock's cheeks are hot beneath his touch. 

"Okay, then." He whispers back. "You won't." 

Time stops around them. Their breath is caught. 

The bartender looks up.

"This is certainly a surprise." 

_Fuck,_ they both think.

_Mycroft._

A/N, sorry that the pacing is fucked in this chapter, I will try to fix it soon. Regardless, I hope you enjoy x


	13. Dreams Are Meant For Sleeping

"Oh, leave me alone-" Sherlock starts. 

"Pleasant evening, wouldn't you say?" Mycroft begins. "Clear night sky, twinkling stars, warm temperature... all rather romantic." 

_He saw,_ and it's all Sherlock can think. _He saw, he knows, he always knows-_

"Dear brother," The older man lets a shark's smile creep onto his skin. "Whatever do you look so uncomfortable for?" 

"I'm notuncomfortable." His words are slipping into each other, he can't separate them quick enough.

"I apologise," Mycroft states. "What shall we say instead? Perhaps _embarrassed_ should suffice?"

"You. Wish." Sherlock states coldly, hoping separate sentences can sever his words apart. 

"Mycroft." John puts down his beer, turns to the polished, primed version of his best friend. "This is my Stag Night. Now, I wouldn't usually be so rude, but I'm hammered, and don't remember inviting you..." He casually picks up the glass again, takes a moment. 

"So do us a favour, and fuck off." 

The toothy grin disintegrates.

"Mycroft!" Lestrade ambles over, seemingly delighted at the appearance of such a character. "Was just talkin' 'bout you and your _mental_ brother. Come, let's get a beer." 

Suddenly, Mycroft looks more than interested in leaving. His eyes slide between John's and Sherlock's, a warning of sorts. 

"We'll talk about this, _brother_." And he turns to exit.

"I'm still smart, bloody brilliant Sherlock!" The detective retorts. "God, I hatehimsomuch." 

The doctor smiles at him, gently. 

"John! You haven't had your fucking go yet. It's only fair," Lestrade whines. John begrudgingly supposes he is right.

"Shit, okay. Just giveus a minute, I'll be up front in a second, in just a second okay," He slurs. Lestrade nods, his patience wearing thin, then joins Mike once again by the stage.

The doctor refocuses his attention to the brunette beside him at the bar. He smiles goofily.

"You're a goddamn peice of work, you know that?" He expresses, a little dazed. "I will miss you." 

And then he's getting up, he's moving to the front, and Sherlock's too far gone to register his disappearance before it's happened, and the words John's said, thumping round his brain like a rocky, rocky rollercoaster.

_"I will miss you."_

_No._ He shakes his head, his curls bounce around, a minute beforehand where they were blessed by John's touch. His heart stops, restarts, hums an irregular beat powered by delusion, perplexity, bafflement. His mind palace is overflowing, the onslaught of emotions erupting too soon, too fast to manage individually.

_This cannot be happening._

_What did you expect?_

And suddenly there's his voice, heavy, addled with drink, still flowing like sweet syrup into Sherlock's mind. _Hey Jude_ , he's attempting, and he's reassuring himself, telling himself to _"Go out and get her,"_ and Sherlock reckons this is the first time that The Beatles sound menacing. 

But he'll sit through it, and order another shot. He'll wait it out, and then it shall be his turn, and he won't win the game, he'll finish it. 

Because he is Sherlock Holmes, and that is exactly what he does.

A/N: Shorter chapter today guys, many apologies. However, an english teacher once made the point that uneven chapter size and structure makes for a much more compelling tale, so I trust her with this. That's not to say there will nlt be longer ones in future! Today I just had little time. Hope that's okay Xx


	14. I'll Tell You What You Don't Want To Hear

Hot, liquid desire. 

That is all Sherlock knows, and all he has ever known.

He lets the emotions rule his head, because that is how it's always been. He feels the bubbling, boiling sensation low in his stomach, only amplified by the reckless adrenaline of alcohol. Right now, in this moment, he is risking everything he's taken years to build, to adapt, to develop. He is forgetting how he ever suppressed any of it, and why.

So he walks, right up to the front of the club. He lets go of any self-restraint, and instead revels in this new kind of carelessness, this sudden freedom. And he loves it. 

Lestrade grins, delighted to finally witness the trainwreck his fellow detective will become. Mike stands next to him, notices the expression, and finds it contagious, the realisation of seeing Sherlock unravel truly setting in. John, careful, cautious, observing his best friend mount the stage from a safe place near the back. Watching, waiting, to see what he will do. Terrified of it, and yet so intrigued. 

"Good evening, fellow members of the human race," Sherlock says, lifting the microphone to his mouth. "And what a pleasure it is to see you all so eager for my little show." The audience laugh in a bemused sort of way, noting quietly to each other that he is quite clearly off his head. The murmurs grow, and so the brunette holds up his hands. 

"Now hush, all of you. Don't you want to hear me?" 

He offers a curt nod to someone at the side, a clear indication to start the music. They get the heads-up, and so it flows through the speakers. 

Guitar, electric. That is the first thing John registers, and then the drums, and afterward, the base. It is a low, thumping rhythm, and he finds himself nodding his head almost instinctively to the sound. It's smooth, like melted chocolate, and Sherlock coats his tongue with the lyrics. 

_"Do I wanna know?_  
If this feeling flows both ways?  
Sad to see you go,  
Was sort of hoping that you'd stay  
Baby, we both know  
That the nights were mainly made for saying things that you can't say tomorrow day." 

The electric guitar cries, and then he sings the chorus. 

John finds himself rather enjoying the song - he has not heard it before, but he recognises the sound.. he is just a little baffled Sherlock had even known about music like this, when all he seemed familiar with was the violin. Lestrade, on the other hand, has heard it before, and mouths the lyrics along with Sherlock on stage. Soon the chorus is over, and he launches into the second verse, where the guitar falls away, and suddenly it is only he, the drums and the base, who almost whisper the words with undeniable, impulsive sensuality.

_"So have you got the guts?  
Been wondering if your heart's still open and if so I wanna know what time it shuts.." _

The detective, for some unfathomable reason, has started cavorting around the stage, making use of all the space he's got. It would be funny, if it weren't so serious. He moves with a sense of purpose, his mind set in stone - and he, a flaming confidence surging through his veins, invites the microphone closer to his lips.

_"Simmer down and pucker up  
I'm sorry to interrupt. It's just I'm constantly on the cusp of trying to kiss you.."_

His eyes are screwed shut, his head is lifted upwards and his jaw capable of cutting ice - irrespective of whether or not his vocals are good or terrible, everyone in the club is suddenly thunderstruck with the knowledge that he did not chose this song because he liked it - he chose it because he felt it, and still does, when every ounce of emotion that pours into his voice, his eyebrows drawn together in tight concentration. 

Sherlock sings it not because it is good, but because it is him - in the most nonsensical, and yet obvious, way.

And like a magnet, John finds himself pulled closer.

 _"I don't know if you feel the same as I do."_ He is stood next to Lestrade now, who nudges him with his elbow. John spares a second to look over at him, hates the raised eyebrows with which he is faced.  
Rather, he hates what they mean. He hates what Lestrade is implying. And so he turns away, back to Sherlock, back to the song, only for it to be an even graver mistake. 

_"But we could be together...  
If you wanted to..." _

And the corner of his mouth quirks, his voice bends like it's a question, his eyes lift to meet John's, and all at once everything crashes around the army doctor in an uneasy, permanent conclusion. This is the truth, this always has been; and John, too naïve or too blind to notice it, has for too long been captured within his spell. 

A spell not even Sherlock knew how to control. 

_"Do I wanna know?  
If this feeling flows both ways?"_

John's breath staggers, the reason for the song hitting him with blunt force. They are questions, so many questions, for this is an interrogation, and he is a detective...

_"Sad to see you go  
Was sort of hoping that you'd stay..."_

He isn't staying, he's so grateful to up and leave, he never knew, he never thought to question-

_"Baby, we both know  
That the nights were mainly made for saying things that you can't say tomorrow day."_

There's that whine of the guitar again, and John finally listens to what Sherlock has been trying to tell him, since the day they first met. Finally, he can hear the words that were never spoken.

 _"Crawling back to you_  
Ever thought of calling when you've had a few?  
'Cause I always do  
Maybe I'm too busy being yours to fall for somebody new  
Now I've thought it through."

Sherlock's shirt ripples against his skin, the collarbones exposed. They are somehow more pale in this dim light than they ever were in the light of day. His forehead is slick with perspiration. 

_"Do I wanna know?"_

The song is nearing it's end now, people realise. The show is almost over. 

_"Too busy being yours to fall..."_

John's mind flashes to Mary, and wavering guilt, dismissal and detachment come with it. 

_"Sad to see you go,"  
"Ever thought of calling, darling?"_

As the old-fashioned nickname curls around Sherlock's tongue, rolls off it with ease, a rush of a million, pleasant needles prick the back of John's neck at the sound. 

_"Do I wanna know?  
Do you want me crawling back to you?"_

The guitar plays its infamous riff a few more times, then one by one, the instruments start to fall away, and finally the drums finish the song and the circle is complete. Sherlock stumbles a little, his curls hiding his eyes, and pushes through the throng of stunned audience members towards the back of the club, waits until someone else mounts the stage and they are refocused, till he collapses against the wall, and tries as desperately as he can not to fumble in the dark for that area between his legs.

 

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and of course I do not own the song, it is Do I Wanna Know by the Arctic Monkeys and is therefore their property. Massive apologies for not updating this fic sooner, however this year will unfortunately see even fewer updates as I have very important exams to study for. That being said, I am far too dedicated to this fic to abandon it, so though the updates will be infrequent and long-winded, just know that I fully intend to continue with it as best I can. Thank you for reading, and both your feedback and encouragement mean a lot to me. -frecklesandconstellations99 xx

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, please leave a comment telling me what you think! Also, I'm open to constructive criticism, so feel free to leave some of that too. Next chapter will be out soon!


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